The procrastinator moves

For so long I’ve dreamt of leaving to the ghosts these pealing walls,
The uneven wood floor, the squeaky hot water pipe, the noisy old fridge,
And, most of all, the feuding couple next door,
The male half of which will forever wear orange hair in my remembrances
Owing to some mishap with his at-home colouring of his pesky greys.

But suddenly, all’s quiet indoors,
And nothing bothers like these boxes.

How I hate the dull hue of moving boxes.
All I see is rigidity, and captivity,
The fabric schools uniformly bind boys with.
Not to inspire; To bore them into submission.

I, however, do not feel like submitting
So the pictures to my left hang comfortably, as they have for years,
Pictures that should be wrapped and packed by the time the movers descend.